Counting Down
by girl in the glen
Summary: New Year's and danger, and something more...


The fireworks, which heralded the arrival of 1965, were spectacular, but Napoleon Solo had no interest them. The hope of the new year had been superseded by the hope of survival.

He was situated on a precipice above the Seine River, a ledge really above the tourist attraction beneath him. The building was ancient, his pursuer a more recent invention of something only slightly more sinister than the long ago architect who constructed the wicked looking building. A gothic image perched at his left, the gaping mouth like some demon sent to further terrorize the wounded UNCLE agent.

Solo's partner seemed to have been vanquished, as he feared he might soon be. The last image of Illya Kuryakin had been as he plummeted to the ground beneath them, his final resting place obscured by a fog that crept along the ground, hiding those beneath Napoleon's field of vision.

"Oh Illya, how long we have fought alongside each other…' the sigh was audible as a friendship of several years lapped at the edge of his memory, the finality of its end like waves being pulled back into the ocean.

"Should I still wait for one of your miraculous reappearances my friend?" If only it could be so.

"Da, moy drug… You should not have vanquished me so soon to the nether pits of mytarstva."

Napoleon resisted the urge to turn quickly towards that voice, still low and resonant even after certain death. Could it be?

"Illya? You survived that… you're alive?" It was nearly unbelievable, and yet the Russian had proved many times that, like a cat, he seemed to have more than one life to live. Napoleon resisted the urge to count them, fearful of discovering it too near the problematic number nine.

"They are dead Napoleon, and I am very much alive. Bruised, and most probably with at least one broken rib, but alive. We need to get you off that ledge…' Illya extended a hand towards his friend, helped him to gain his footing and step back inside the bell tower.

"How did you manage it? I saw you fall, Illya." The memory of that almost made Napoleon choke up, his dismay and horror at the sight of Illya falling through the fog and into certain death. Well, not so certain now that he was standing in front of him.

"I managed to fall into a large awning that was the entrance to the gift shop. It was all I could manage to not bounce off of it and into the fountain. As it happened, I was able to grab hold of the frame and swing into the door, which was slightly less damaging to me."

Napoleon was bleeding, a shot to his left shoulder by the man who had been pursuing him… both of them. As the adrenaline began to diminish, he felt the impact of the wound and the danger. Only his relief at knowing Illya was alive kept him from fainting from shock and fatigue.

"Let's get you to a hospital Napoleon." Illya's concern showed on his face, in his voice.

"Only me? You don't look so hot your…" Finally, the events of the evening took their toll on the UNCLE agent. Illya hoisted him onto his shoulder, wincing at the pain in his ribcage but unwilling to put Napoleon down. He made the descent down to the ground floor and let the unconscious man down as gently as he could. He spied a phone on the counter of the little gift shop where they emerged from the stairwell, and called the number for UNCLE Headquarters. His communicator was somewhere outside but looking for it was a task he would undertake later. The arrangements were made for a car to pick them up, and when it arrived two Section III agents helped the wounded men into the backseat of the Citroen.

As the car pulled away from the Gothic structure, another vehicle arrived to clean up what Illya had left for them. Hours later the identity of their attacker would be linked to THRUSH; it would surprise no one.

Napoleon awoke amidst the dulling effects of pain killers and the loss of blood he had endured. He saw his partner on the next bed, still fully dressed and sound asleep as evidenced by snoring as stealthy as the man himself. It sounded more like a cat's purr than what it was.

Illya's ribs were taped up tight, holding him together for now. Having been offered the second bed in Napoleon's room, something he readily accepted, he had fallen asleep before the nurse left the room.

Napoleon watched him, still amazed at the man's ability to survive what had looked like certain death. Sometimes, not often but definitely when in a haze of drugs or pain killers, Napoleon wondered if the Russian was quite real.

"It's the drugs Solo…" The sound of his voice awakened Illya, who struggled against his broken rib to sit up and look at his friend.

"Napoleon, how are you feeling my friend?" The hole in his shoulder was not nearly as dangerous as the loss of blood and the exposure on a winter's night. Napoleon managed a smile and laid his head back on the pillow.

"Fine, full of pain killers. Say…' He was still trying to get it straight about how Illya had landed on the awning.

"Tell me again how you managed to land…" Illya laughed, amused at Napoleon's disbelief.

"I landed Napoleon, and the awning saved me. It was luck, or providence… whatever you wish to call it." It made sense, but still something nagged at the American's need for more, even as the drugs pulled at him and urged him towards sleep.

"Illya, how do you do it? How do you always land on your feet, like a cat? Are you part cat?" Now the drugs were talking, and Illya merely smiled in response to the question.

Silently, he counted.


End file.
